


His Final Problem

by The_Mullholond_Typewriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fix-It, M/M, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Slow Burn, like eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-17 23:13:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11861622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Mullholond_Typewriter/pseuds/The_Mullholond_Typewriter
Summary: A fix it for series 4 because that was a mess and no one really knows how it ended.





	1. Chapter 1

It was late, which was probably why John told the cabbie to go to Baker Street. Sherlock didn't even look like he was listening, looking almost listlessly out the window as the lights flashed across his face like they were the shadows of his thoughts as his mind was working out whatever problem he had ignored the rest of the world to solve. 

John thought that there were many to work out, many scenarios to think through. He himself was too mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted to really think about anything, but he also knew that Sherlock would avoid giving into his own exhaustion until his problem was solved. The final problem. 

When the cabbie stopped, John was painfully reminded of the state of the flat. The windows had cardboard pieces taped over them, some glass shards still reaching from the window frame. 

Sherlock got out and entered the building, almost gliding, trying not to look like he was in a hurry to get back to the comforts of 221B. John instead went to Mrs. Hudson’s flat and was greeted by a very affectionate hug through a pastel dressing gown.

“Oh John, I was worried sick, every time I think at least one of you boys had learned to call on your mobiles you seem to magically forget and leave me fretting,” Mrs. Hudson scolded.

“Sorry about that, everything had been a bit…” John hesitated to try for a proper adjective. “More than we were used to.” 

“You poor dears. Come in, Rosie has been asleep, but she's already packed to go home.” John moved into the flat before Mrs. Hudson finished, needing to see the small child to know that at least something was okay. He supposed that was the real reason he told the cabbie to go to Baker Street. 

She was sound asleep, rattle loosely held in a chubby little hand as she dreamt. Her mouth moved in her sleep. “She's been a dream, rarely ever wakes up in the night anymore unless she needs a nappy change.” 

“Thank you for watching her,” John said as he kept looking over his daughter. “I hate to ask you to watch her for a bit longer.” 

“Not a worry, I know you and Sherlock need to rest after all of this business,” Mrs. Hudson said as she patted John’s shoulder.

He inhaled, his hand clutching then relaxing before tensing again. “I should go get him.” 

“Good idea, that man would attempt to put that flat back together himself if he was left alone with it.” 

John kissed Rosie’s forehead gently and patted her curling hair before finally tearing himself away. “I’ll call in the morning.” 

“Oh, so he remembers again,” Mrs. Hudson joked. John gave her a good natured smile before he left the land lady to finally sleep. 

Sherlock stood in the center of the mess, his eyes roaming over the mounds of broken furniture covered in plaster dust, analyzing and documenting everything that was or wasn't there. 

“Sherlock, come on. We can look this over later.” 

“Yes,” was the first word that John had heard Sherlock speak since they left the well behind. But he didn't move. 

John went up and slowly put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Come on, I know you’ll need the rest, you haven't stopped for days.”

“I’ll go down to Mrs. Hudson--”

“No,” John interrupted sternly. Sherlock turned and met his gaze, looking confused but defiant at the same time. “You can come stay in my flat. I need to make sure you…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning away. “Honestly, John, do you now think that whenever anything remotely bad happens I will run back to some drug den because my brother has you thinking that I'm an emotional mess?” 

“No, I think that it wasn't too long ago since you nearly died from your using and if you stay with Mrs. Hudson you can get away with not finally sleeping and instead coming up here.” 

Sherlock looked down, deflated. “I suppose your skills of deduction are improving.” 

John licked his lips. “Come on.” He tugged on Sherlock's arm, turning him around to finally walk down the steps and back out onto the street. 

“I’ll walk for a bit,” Sherlock said. 

“Then I'm walking with you,” John replied. Sherlock briefly glanced at him. “Just the two of us, right?” He tried to joke, but if Sherlock understood his words then he didn't let on. John let go of his arm, stuffing his hands in his pockets and trying to think of something to say that didn't make things worse. 

“How is Rosie?” Sherlock asked before John could pose a topic starter of his own. 

“Good, Mrs. Hudson agreed to look after her for tonight. I promised to call in the morning, bring her home maybe.” 

“Good, that's good, John,” Sherlock answered. He was looking down at the ground. 

John decided to think of something reassuring to say, something that would break him out of his thoughts. “You are a good man, you know. I might've been slow to catch on and prone to forget it when I was in a fit, but you are a good man.” 

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock’s face didn't change. 

John sighed. “What are you thinking?” 

Sherlock looked up. “Pardon?”

“What has you so consumed at the moment? What are you trying to think about?” 

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it, then thought for a moment before trying again and failing to make a sound. John thought that it was out of character, for Sherlock to be floundering like that, especially in front of him. John thought it was almost like seeing little Sherlock, trying to voice his first deductions. 

“I'm trying to see if I remembered anything else wrong. In my Mind Palace. But I keep getting distracted.” Sherlock’s answer was uncharacteristically slow, like he was still in the throes of going through his memories. 

“By what?” A shrug. “Molly? Eurus?” 

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Everything,” was the simple reply. John understood. 

“Oh,” John said dumbly anyways. “You can talk, you know. To me. About whatever it is you're thinking.”

“I know.” 

“So how come you won't?” John asked. “You usually make a point of dazzling me with your brilliance, why is it so different now?” 

Sherlock swallowed and looked down. “Because now is not about being brilliant or showing off, it's about fixing everything that I've done,” he snapped. “These past few months have all been about fixing it.” 

John felt bad for bringing up what Mycroft had said, felt partially guilty for Sherlock feeling like he needed to fix something. “Sherlock--”

“Don't try to apologize for anything, either.” 

John looked at him directly, the two pausing their stroll. “Sherlock, you don't need to fix anything right now. There will be time for that later. Right now you need to focus on getting through everything that just happened.” 

Sherlock did look like a child as he hesitantly glanced up at John, then back down. “But--”

“Sherlock. It is what it is. Remember?” 

Sherlock looked up at John again, but maintained the look for a few long moments before he closed his eyes and nodded. “It is what it is.” 

John nodded once to himself. “Exactly.” He tried to sound softer, realizing that before he had a Captain Watson edge in his tone. “Now come on, there's a pull out bed that needs to be set up.” 

“You're not sleeping on the pull out bed,” Sherlock argued. 

John briefly dared to think about offering to share his bed with Sherlock, but stamped the notion out quickly. “Alright, if you say so.” 

They kept walking, Sherlock noticeably more interested in his surroundings to John's relief. It meant that he really had snapped Sherlock out of his thoughts. John did admire his brilliance, but he saw how sometimes Sherlock’s thoughts would almost eat him alive. 

Then John thought again about sharing a bed with Sherlock. He wondered if Sherlock ever had nightmares. John was now certain that the time Sherlock was away after The Fall was anything but a holiday. He had glimpsed at scars while he was in hospital, heard him mumbling whenever he slept during his short stint back at Baker Street. The fact that he killed a man for him and Mary and Rosie. 

John felt like absolute rubbish for it all. He hasn't been himself since Mary died, completely neglecting what had happened to Sherlock. Before he would shoot a man for him without a second thought and while playing the Saw murder games he couldn't. But John felt like the Dr. Watson in a cream coloured cable knit jumper was finally back and was ready to prove that to Sherlock. 

“Dinner?” John asked. 

“Hm?” Sherlock asked. “I don't think many places are open right now.” 

“You're supposed to say ‘Starving’,” John said. “I say dinner, you say starving.” 

Sherlock smiled, huffed a small laugh as a genuine grin softened his angular features. “Then ask me again.” 

John grinned. “Dinner?”

Sherlock smiled at him, looking like a small part of him had finally come back from the well. “Starving.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV, basically just him screaming into the void, while our boys finally start feeling better

Sherlock Holmes was at a loss for the second -- 'No, apparently third' -- time in his life. He didn't know how to proceed without making matters worse. The first time was with Redbeard. 

The second time was when John Hamish Watson had wanted him to write a speech. A speech that was perfect, Sherlock had to make perfect for him because to him John was perfect and he needed to make John happy after everything he had done to him. But he couldn't betray his own feelings, couldn't let on how much he really felt for his flatmate. Sherlock realized later that he did so anyways, but John appeared to not have noticed.

The third time was when John had blamed him for Mary's passing. He didn't know how to gain back the ground he had lost. He thought everything was finally okay again, John had been happy and he had cases and there had been the threat of Moriarity but Sherlock could protect them, he would protect them, he had to protect them. He had been horribly wrong, about everything it seemed, and he had felt so alone again. 

Sherlock was once again at a loss. He felt like he lost Molly as a friend, he didn't know what to think about his sister, his brother, Victor Trevor. He didn't even want to begin to poke at the feelings that were bubbling in his chest out of fear that he wouldn't know how to think about that either. He didn't even know where he stood with John anymore.

But as John unlocked his flat door, take out bags in one hand, Sherlock felt like maybe he could get somewhere. Maybe not everything was so upside down after all. Maybe His John was finally back. 

John flicked on some lights, Sherlock looming behind him and analyzing the living room. It was the same as before, when John had invited him in once after he dropped off Rosie.

John put the bags on the kitchen table before shedding his coat. "I'll go put this in the closet, you dig in. You're eating." 

Sherlock nodded, but didn't move. He felt like if he moved he would disturb something. He didn't take his eyes off of John as he left the room, either. Sherlock was scared that if he came back, something would be wrong again and His John would be gone. 

When John did return, he saw that the consulting detective hadn't moved. "Sherlock, come on," John urged as he started unpacking the paper containers full of the Chinese take away John had ordered. 

Sherlock sat at the table, folding his gloved hands on the wooden surface. He felt like everything was too fragile, that he himself was too fragile. If he moved anything more, something was going to break. 

John plated the food, Sherlock's stomach grumbling loudly as John handed him a plate. "Jesus, Sherlock, at least try to relax." Something in Sherlock's expression must've worried John further because he came around and slipped the coat off of his shoulders. Sherlock gave in, taking off his gloves and unbuttoning his dress coat. Eyes remained on John as he went to hang it up.

Dinner passed silently. Sherlock ate as much as John would let him get away with because every time he thought about the well he felt like throwing up. John ate his whole plate. Then John looked over at Sherlock. "You're thinking again." 

"I'm always thinking," Sherlock replied without hesitation.

John laughed a bit. "Yes, but I mean you're thinking like you were before. All... I don't know, negatively." 

Sherlock looked at his hands. "I'm sorry." It was the only phrase he felt was suitable for him to say anymore. He was sorry that he had to play with Molly like that. He was sorry that he almost shot Mycroft. He was sorry that John almost died for him again. He was sorry that Mary was dead, that Rosie had to grow up without a mother, that John had to see the state Sherlock was in at the hospital, sorry for everything. 

But he knew that just saying sorry wasn't good enough anymore. He needed to somehow do better without making worse of the situation. 

"How about we go to bed, yeah?" John asked. It had only then registered that he was saying something else and Sherlock wasnt listening.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said again. 

John looked at him sadly. He didn't want John to be sad anymore. "I'll get you a T-shirt and see if I have any long pajama trousers around while you fold out the bed. Okay?" 

Sherlock nodded and got up to do as John said. He knew John was right, that thinking the way he did would make him feel worse and that he should leave it, but he couldn't. Thoughts swirled in and out like the debris in a tornado or a hurricane, each one threatening to topple him over completely, but he couldn't focus on one, he couldn't stay in one place or purposefully go to another, he just kept swirling and swirling and it was enough to make him feel sick or want to cry or both simultaneously. 

He stood beside the bed, not knowing what to do until John returned with a T-shirt and trousers. "These will be short on you, but they'll manage," John said with a kind smile. It only made Sherlock want to break into pieces, figuratively and literally. 

He had to swallow before answering. "Thank you." When the light was out and Sherlock was dressed and John was gone it was worse. There were too many things to fix, too many monumental things to fix, things to miss and mourn, things he hadn't let himself miss and mourn and emote for years. He didn't know what was happening to him, but he was feeling too intensely, thinking too chaotically, he just wanted peace and quiet and sleep but he couldn't. 

It was close to one in the morning when Sherlock got up, clutching a spare pillow tightly to his chest as he traveled up the stairs silently. John's door was closed so he knocked on it gently. When no reply came, Sherlock was preparing himself to spend the night in the dark alone and turn around when the door opened. 

John looked like he had just woken up, his hair no longer set in place with product, his eyes looking puffy. Sherlock was happy that at least he could still deduce some things. 

"Sherlock?" John asked. "What is it?"

Sherlock didn't know. He just wanted to see John, to know he wasn't in a well anymore, that he wasn't angry with him anymore, he wasn't drowning anymore, that he wasn't dead or dying or in pain. But as Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, nothing would come out. He felt idiotic.

But John's lips quirked and he stepped aside to let Sherlock in. "We can share the bed tonight, yeah?" 

"Yes." Sherlock's voice cracked and he swallowed again because John was also hurting, he should be the one comforting John instead of the other way around and he was already failing miserably. 

Sherlock eyed Mary's side of the bed. It felt wrong for him to take it because that was her spot and John had chosen her. But John smiled at him. "Go on, it's all fine, as long as you get some sleep." 

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, John's back towards him. Sherlock felt like he could focus. John's breathing, even and slowing by the second. His linens smelled freshly washed, the blankets a comforting weight around him as he inhaled deeply. 

"Good night, Sherlock," John mumbled sleepily. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled and felt like his head was clearing. Because it didn't smell or feel like Mary or the well or Redbeard, it was all just John and Sherlock didn't hurt as much when all he thought about was John. "Good night, John," Sherlock replied. He closed his eyes and fell asleep to the sound of His John breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Like before I'd appreciate comments to know if I'm going in a decent direction with the story


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to John's POV, let's play a game called "Who can see how many SIP parallels I put in the past three chapters" because even I just now saw them. John starts finally getting to root of what's up with Sherlock.

John was making breakfast downstairs when Sherlock finally woke up. He could hear him moving around, probably using the loo. John was worried that he wouldn't be awake in time to eat the toast, eggs, and bacon warm. John would've elected to eat beans and toast, but Sherlock wasn't particularly a fan. 

John had woken up early, a habit that he had given up breaking, to see Sherlock sleeping soundly on the opposite side of the bed. He was glad the consulting detective was still asleep, it gave him time to think. Regroup. To plan a way to start making it up to him. First was breakfast, one that John was going to make him eat like always. 

Sherlock came down the stairs, heading for the living room where his trousers and shirt were instead of into the kitchen. "Sherlock?" 

He appeared, only peering around the frame of the doorway. "Yes?" 

John stepped away from the stove, taking the pan and spatula and sliding a few pieces of bacon onto a pair of plates. "You need to eat, I know that you haven't eaten in days," John said as he took a seat. 

Sherlock stepped more into the kitchen, looking a little anxious. "I'm fine." But John shot him a look and Sherlock shuffled to the opposite side of the table. As Sherlock proceeded to eat everything off of the plate, John ate his own food in silence. 

It was the same routine, the song and dance of Sherlock not wanting to eat and then discovering after the first few bites that he was ravenous and eating anything John would put in front of him. John was happy to know that part hadn't changed. Other parts, like the grating arrogance and confidence, had drastically morphed into something more human than Sherlock had ever showed the world. 

"So, I think I'm going to go pick up Rosie around noon, stroll around the park maybe," John said. 

"That sounds nice, the weather should be decent today," Sherlock said. It was so kind it was almost robotic, like he was trying too hard to be agreeable. 

"Want to come with?" 

Sherlock looked up at John, not necessarily looking stunned but definitely confused. "Why?" 

John shrugged. "Just to get out, get some fresh air, see that world hasn't imploded over night." 

Sherlock looked more tense and John started to regret his choice of words. "I want to go see Molly."

"What?" 

"I need to apologize, face to face. That's how you always start fixing things, right? Apologizing?"

"Sherlock, I don't think she would want to see you right now," John warned. 

"I know, but I have to try," Sherlock said, looking at John fiercely. "She's my friend, she didn't deserve to be played with like that and she definitely doesn't deserve the likes of me to love her anyways."

"So...you do love her?" John asked.

Sherlock quickly turned his attention to something on the wall to his left. "Of course I do, just not in the way she wants me to." 

"Because you love The Woman?" 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, honestly..." He looked like he was going to say more, but stopped himself, frowning bitterly before standing and taking his plate with him. "I'll go with you to pick up Rosie," he said quietly before depositing his dishes into the sink.

"Do you want coffee?" John asked. Sherlock usually took his as soon as he woke up. 

"No, thank you. Excuse me." He went back out into the living room, took his clothes from the day before, and went to change in the bathroom. 

John sighed, rubbing his face in mild irritation. The conversation did enlighten a few things for John. Like how Sherlock apparently cared very deeply for his friends, enough to save one from death and to feel overwhelming guilt for manipulating the other. John decided that Sherlock Holmes was then definitely gay, just a very reluctant to date one that was, at the moment, more concerned about setting things right with his friends and family.

John thought it was a noble cause and had to smile a little. When Sherlock reappeared, dressed and looking more Sherlock-like, John had cleared the dishes and started the washing. Sherlock silently rolled up his sleeves and started drying the dishes for him and putting them away in the cupboards. "You know you don't have to apologize to me for anything, right?"

John knew what an apologetic Sherlock looked like. He made John coffee -- even though Sherlock thought it was drugged coffee, that's beside the point -- basically planned his wedding, and had offered his babysitting services. Either they were small things to help John, or they were grand gestures of an exploding train or a tear jerking best man's speech or sending a fake demon hound after him. 

Sherlock focused his attention on his chore, answer nonchalantly, "Of course I know." 

"Because you didn't do anything wrong. You know that, right?" 

"Hm," he hummed to at least acknowledge that John was still speaking. 

"If anything, I should be the one apologizing to you," John continued. 

Sherlock dropped a plate onto the counter, breaking it. "Dammit!" he snapped, gingeringly picking out the larger pieces. "I'm sorry, John, it must've slipped, won't happen again." 

John paused his washing, turning to look at Sherlock as he deduced the location of brown paper bags and started dropping the plate pieces into one. "Hold on, Sherlock--" 

"This way it's easier, so that when the rest of the rubbish is taken out it doesn't stab anyone and so that it can still be carried and tossed out," Sherlock explained. 

"Look, Sherlock, I--"

"I found it very handy with dropped chemistry equiptment, although I have a special waste bin for it." 

"Sherlock, just stop for a second and look at me, okay?" Sherlock sighed, briefly gathering what little remained of his emotional wall and looking up at John. "Sherlock, I have been out of line. Completely. You didn't do anything wrong, I was just upset and feeling guilty myself and instead of having you help me like you always do I blamed it on you. Nothing that I said or did was right. You're not a liar, you didn't kill anyone who didn't deserve it, and I have been so lucky to have a friend like you who didn't give up on me." 

Sherlock's mouth was hanging open, his eyes looming over John's face intently, searching for something. Then he looked sadly at John, frowning. "John, I put you into danger again, I was too focused on myself and I didn't notice Eurus and I had forgotten everything and--" 

"Sherlock, that's not your fault. It's really no one's fault. She took advantage of the situation, she played us, and there was no way you could've stopped it." 

Sherlock looked down at his hands. "Then how come I still feel like it is my fault, John?" He accused bitterly. 

"Because you're Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock smirked a little at that. John wasn't sure how to continue. If he should hug him, keep washing dishes, or just go retrieve the small baby that was sure to make everyone in the situation much happier. 

Instead, Sherlock swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing on his long throat. "I will try to remember that, John."

John smiled at him brightly. "Good. And if you forget, I'll be happy to remind you."

Sherlock nodded. "I'm still going to apologize to Molly."

"Understandable," John replied. "So how about we go get Rosie, then? And you could pick up some clothes and things?"

"For what?"

John leaned his back against the counter. "For staying here. You can't just live at Baker Street with it in that state, you'll get a concussion from the ceiling coming down on you."

"I suppose you're right," Sherlock admitted. "While I'm here I can help with her. If you'd like. With Rosie, I mean."

John grinned and nodded. "Of course. That would be perfectly alright with me."

The stroll through the park never happened. Well, John supposed it did, but it was more like Lestrade had stumbled upon a murder victim there and John followed Sherlock about with Rosie in her stroller as he solved it with little pieces he gathered.

"How is he?" Lestrade had asked John while Sherlock was busy rattling off deductions.

"Surprisingly not okay," John replied, "but he's hanging in there, I think. Feels awful about it all."

"Solved this one in two hours," Lestrade said. "I figured if I gave him something to do it would make him happy."

"I'm going to Angelo's," Sherlock declared.

"Without solving it?" John wondered aloud.

"I'll solve it soon enough," Sherlock repljed before stalkjng towards the car with his hands in his pockets and his collar popped up.

"Looks like he's not hanging in there so much, mate," Lestrade whispered.

John caught up to Sherlock. "Hey, Sherl--" 

"I can put the stroller in the trunk while you buckle her in," Sherlock interrupted. 

"How come you haven't solved it? It's easy enough for Lestrade to," John said. 

Sherlock popped the trunk. "I'm just finishing details, thought you would be hungry."

"What details?" John asked. 

"I'm just making sure, John," he said, exasperated.

John unbuckled Rosie. "It's unlike you to be unsure." Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Sherlock, is this about--"

"Enough, John." Sherlock got into the passenger seat, closing thd door with more force than necessary, but not exactly slamming it. John secured Rosie into her seat, talking to her in light tones before getting into the driver's seat. 

"Sherlock, is this because you think your brain is unreliable?" 

Sherlock crossed his arms. "Of course not." 

"I think it is. And I further deduce that this has been what's made you so emotional lately, why you needed to come upstairs last night."

"If you didn't like it just say so and I won't do it again," Sherlock said too quickly, like he was trying to snap at John but he was scared that it was true and he was disappointed about it. 

"That's not what I'm saying," John said gently. "You can come upstairs whenever you feel like you need to. I'm just saying that it's okay if you feel...insecure now." 

Sherlock sunk deeper into his coat. "No it's not," Sherlock mumbled. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. I don't get insecure." 

John decided to take pity on him and start the car. "You're eating at Angelo's" 

"Okay."

"Sherlock! It's been a while, my friend, I haven't seen you in too long! Take a seat, you and-- Oh God, who is this?" Angelo had directed his attention to the newest Watson. 

"Rosie," John replied. 

"She's beautiful, congratulations to the both of you, take a seat anywhere you like while I get a high chair." 

"Um... Yeah, okay, let's sit at our table." 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but sat at the booth in front of the window without a word. John sat Rosie in the high chair once it was set, leaving his hands open to look at the menu. Sherlock didn't pick his up, just tracked the cars and cabs that drove by with his penetrating, icy gaze. He looked like he was from another dimension, sitting in the daylight with his white skin that contrasted greatly to his curls and the shadows being thrown by his bone structure. 

"Stop staring," Sherlock told John without looking towards him. 

"Sorry," John said as he looked down at his menu.

"Why didn't you correct him?" 

"Sorry?"

Sherlock directed that cyan gaze to John. "Whenevdr someone assumes we're a couple, you correct them. Why didn't you this time?"

John shrugged. "It doesn't seem as important anymore. I mean, who cares if anyone thinks I'm gay or not?" 

Sherlock raised his eye brows again. "What changed your mind?"

It had been the realisation of that morning. John thought that Sherlock didn't date because John was so adamant that he wasn't gay, fought it tooth and nail at times. He, rather stupidly, hadn't realized that "Women aren't really my area" meant that he didn't like women. 

"Well, you're gay, and I figure that there's nothing wrong with it and I might've been insensitive before." 

Sherlock Holmes blushed, for the first time in John's presence. Rosie babbled nonsensically and Sherlock directed his attention to the small baby girl as he tried to regain his composure. "Well, um, I suppose..."

"Like I said, Sherlock, It's all fine with me. It doesn't change the fact that you're my best friend." 

Sherlock smiled, a genuine one that made his face wrinkle in aesthetically pleasing ways. "Right. Thank you." Sherlock looked at the table top, then decided to take out his phone and start texting. 

"Writing to Lestrade?" Sherlock nodded. "About what?"

"Well, I figure if after seven years you finally figured out my sexuality, maybe you can deduce some other things as well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready, I'm thinking some angst is coming their way next chapter so stay tuned


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That DVD from Mary arrives and Sherlock says some revealing things to John. Also, Rosie Watson counsels Sherlock through a sleepless night and she's the cutest thing ever.

Sherlock liked Rosie Watson. She enjoyed smiling and did so often, and also liked grabbing at anything accessible. Like Sherlock's hair, coat collars, shirt collars, among other things. But Sherlock didn't mind, he just smiled at the curious child and continued on with whatever he was doing. 

He particularly felt Rosie to be a positive force when she smiled at him as he walked back into the house. It still felt like Mary, was still her place in Sherlock's mind, and then the guilt resurfaced. But Rosie smiled at him, looking like she thought he was the most interesting person she had seen with her big blue eyes. It was almost like the way John had looked at him, years and years ago.

Sherlock had gone back to retrieve clothes from Baker Street, the pick up being cut short after the text from Lestrade and Sherlock forgetting about it until towards the end of lunch. 

John had called him. He was holding Rosie in one arm, a white envelope in the other. Sherlock's throat went dry as John handed it to him. "Pop this in while I put her down, okay?"

When Mary's face appeared, Sherlock felt the guilt return in waves. It was the woman John loved, John chose, that saved John from himself after Sherlock jumped off of Bart's. 

"When I'm gone I know what you could become." 

Sherlock felt like he was paling. She knew how he felt, John was the only one in denial of what the best man's speech had meant. 

"Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. My Baker Street boys." 

"What was that meant to be?" John asked. 

Sherlock stood clapping his hands tighter behind his back because he was scared to think of what it meant. He wasn't for John. He couldn't be anything to John because of what he had done and how's he's hurt him. 

"Oi, you okay?" 

"Yes," Sherlock said, harsher than he had intended. "I'm fine." 

"You know that--"

"I know that you don't blame me, John, but it's a bit hard to believe that after you split my brow open." It had slipped out. Sherlock meant to think it, not to say it, and he felt like a complete imbecile when he saw the look on John's face. It looked like he had been the one that was hit. 

"Sherlock... I didn't..."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say anything, I'm sorry." 

"Is that why you've been so... Off? Because of me? Is it because you're scared of me?" 

"No, no, I'm sorry--"

"That's the fourth time you've said you're sorry," John pointed out. He stood slowly. 

"I'm not scared of you. I'm not, really. I..." Sherlock didn't know what to say. How did he feel? "I blame myself for the pain that you felt. I blame myself that you were hurting badly enough to hurt me." 

"That's bullshit, Sherlock, and you know it." 

"You think I can just turn it on and off like a tap?" Sherlock shouted. "If I did I wouldn't have pretended to hate everyone most of my life."

"You never acted like you hated me."

"That's because I wanted you to like me." 

"Well then that makes me feel even worse about the whole thing." John was starting to shout now, too.

"I'm not trying to make you feel better I'm trying to tell you how I feel!" 

John was silent and Sherlock was scared that he had done it again. John Watson was once again Captain Watson and he had ruined everything again and now he was going to be kicked out and ignored and alone again. 

"You're right." The tension in John's shoulders disappeared and he looked back at Sherlock. "I'm sorry that I made it about me. You have been hurting, physically and emotionally, this whole time and I've just sort of ignored it. I promise, no more shouting, I will listen and ask questions and you can answer or not. Please, explain how you feel." 

Sherlock scowled, he couldn't help it. John was looking at him, open and kind and Sherlock didn't know how to proceed or what would be okay to say or even how to out everything into words. "What can't you turn on and off like a tap?"

Sherlock was relieved that His John always knew what to do. "The...feelings. The guilt, mostly." 

"What do you feel guilty about?"

Sherlock hesitated, thinking. "You?" It came out as more of a question than he had intended. 

"That's a rather broad category," John said with a joking smile. "What about me?" 

Sherlock looked down. There was too much to say, he decided. There were too many emotions for him to protray, to discuss, to feel, to explain. It was even harder to identify their causes, especially without revealing particular emotions that he was still trying to deny in the most feeble way possible. 

"Sherlock, I am sorry that I have ever raised a hand against you. I know what you went through after The Fall," Sherlock looked up with what must have been a bewildered expression, "and I hurt you when you came back and I'm sorry. And even after that, I still hurt you after Mary and I am especially sorry for that." 

"John," his voice cracked and he hated it. He closed his eyes, hoping that the burning would go away. "I know that I've previously apologized for past grievances that I have caused, but know that I am deeply, profoundly sorry for what happened at Sherinford and in the well with Eurus. You of all people didn't deserve it, your daughter didn't deserve to be orphaned, and I am so sorry that I hadn't thought first and--" 

"You're forgiven. Of course you're forgiven, I'd follow you anywhere and I'd follow you to Sherindord again. Maybe not with your brother, though." 

Sherlock laughed, opening his watering eyes reflexively. John smiled at him sadly and Sherlock hated that he still made John look sad so he turned away and tried to wipe his eyes with gloved hands. 

"Can I hug you? Would that be okay?" 

"Could be dangerous," Sherlock joked as tears kept coming. He didn't expect John to do it. When hands turned him back around and short arms stretched to his shoulders Sherlock didn't know what to do. He didn't freeze, not really, he just didn't really move to do much else than slump into John. 

"Don't worry. I've seen a lot of danger and I'm ready to see more." Sherlock caught a sob in his throat and finally held John back. "Sherlock, I am sorry that I ever hurt you. I promise that I will never again punch you or kick you or try to strangle you or anything that would put a mark on you. Okay?" 

"Okay. I promise--"

"Oi, this is my last vow, now, you had yours."

"I broke mine." 

John tightened his grip, one hand coming up to his head and holding gently onto his curls and Sherlock didn't know if he wanted to cry more to spontaneously combust because it hurt, but it didn't, it made him feel whole and good, but he knew that it was just momentary and that made it hurt again. "No you didn't. Rosie is safe, I'm safe, you've protected us and Mary had...she made her decision." 

It made Sherlock cry more. 

 

Sherlock was staying downstairs again. After a good cry and tea he felt that John had already been exposed to the emotional mess far too much for any sane person already and dared not to do it more. But the darkness was quiet and not a sound broke it and Sherlock hated it because it meant that it was entirely his own brain that was keeping him from sleeping. 

Sherlock did have to admit to himself that he felt better. It was good, having John's arms around him as a memory that would anchor him to reality as rampant bits of his palace were flying at him. Because John regretted hurting him, wouldn't do it again, and it made Sherlock feel like maybe he had done something right. 

Then Rosie was crying. Sherlock had taken the time to memorize exactly what each of Rosie's cries were while he would baby sit occasionally. The hungry one was high pitched, almost a shriek, repetitive and fast like an alarm clock. The nappy change had a slight hiccup to the end and was less repetative. This one in particular was like a siren, the one where she just wanted someone to hold her as her cries rang out slowly, alerting to her distress.

Sherlock decided that John deserved sleep and hurried upstairs. It was also partly because he wasn't sleeping any and the small child would make him feel better. 

Rosie was sitting up in her crib, abandoning her wails for chewing on her first as she saw Sherlock come in. 

"Just need someone to hold you, hm?" he asked. He only talked to her because he had read that a developing baby benefited from hearing people talking normally and classical music. Therefore no baby talk was permitted in his presence and the violin was included once per visit. 

He picked her up, looking into the wide eyes as tears clung to her delicate golden eye lashes and almost made her eyes sparkle in an odd, sort of sad way. "I'm sorry I haven't brought my violin with. I'm afraid you'll just have to manage with hearing me talk." Rosie looked unphased by this. "Well, Watson, what to do now?" 

He paced slowly in a circle around the room, Rosie still chewing at her fingers. Sherlock even tried rocking her a bit, but she still seemed wide awake, tireless. "Much like myself, I suppose," he thought aloud. 

Sherlock decided that sitting in the lounger would help somewhat. He sat, leaning back into the over stuffed chair. Rosie leaned her head into his chest. 

"You know, you must learn to sleep soundly in your own home, Rosie. I have a particular fondness for Baker Street as well and I'm just as guilty of not being able to sleep without someone else there, but you are an infant and I hope to rid you of that habit before it starts. Besides, I doubt your father would want to move back in to 221B." 

Sherlock hesitated, tempted to argue with himself. "Or maybe he will. Without Mary, maybe it's too painful here for him. I know without your mother it's too painful for me." 

Rosie babbled back at him. "Yes, indeed, she was a dear friend of mine. Clever as I am, but as kind as your father. She would do anything to protect you and him. We had our disagreements, yes, she did shoot me once, but that was all alright."

Rosie started reaching for her crib. Sherlock stood to put her back in, but her face scrunched into a pre-wail and he picked her up again. She grabbed her blanket as she was lifted and once settled back into the chair she held it close to her and drooled on it. 

"Your father, however, is a very good man. Now him and I, we have also had our share of disagreements. Bad ones, I'm afraid. But he's the most reliable person you could ask for, loyal, but not too much so that he would let you get away with anything. I learned that the hard way. Never do drugs. Anyways, I know you're going to miss your mummy terribly, but you have the best daddy any little girl could ask for. He's strong, you see, a soldier. You will manage perfectly with him."

Rosie yawned. "Oh, almost asleep, then? Pity. I'm going to be bored once you've dropped off. You are probably going to hear and read this story, but the first time I realized how amazing your father was happened the night we met. No, the night after because we technically met one day then saw the flat the next. Anyways, we were investigating, I sort of picked him up in a whirlwind and forgot him there. I wasn't used to having other people with me.

"But the amazing part was that he came back. My brother tried to scare him, ask him to spy on me and feed him information. He not only said no, but he even came back to the flat and helped me solve the murders. Texted a serial killer for me and everything. It was brilliant, really, and then we had gone to Angelo's, where we went earlier today. But it was when he walked back in, after I showed him that case. I knew I had to find a way to charm him into sticking around. I didn't exactly know why I had to, but here we are. He's still putting up with me. So if you ever have doubts about your dad, I'll be happy to tell you that story again."

Sherlock looked down to see her eyes closed, lashes grazing chubby cheeks. Sherlock was scared that if he sat up and tried to put her down, she would wake and he would have to start again. But when he slowly stood she didn't stir, not even when he put her down and impulsively kissed her forehead. "Alright, then, good night. Sweet dreams, little bee." 

When Sherlock turned, John was standing at the door he had his arms crossed, one shoulder leaning into the frame as he beamed at Sherlock. Sherlock froze, rewinding to remember if he had said anything particularly embarrassing.

"I got a baby monitor, you know. Can hear everything," John said. That was the moment that Sherlock decided that everything he said had been particularly embarrassing. "Little bee, huh? I like it. Every little girl deserves an adorable nickname."

"John..."

"So you really can't sleep here without someone else?"

"Um..." 

"Come on, then. I can tell you're tired, you start almost slurring your words."

"Alright..." Sherlock replied as he hoped that the dimly lit nursery would hide the blush that was standing out across his cheek bones.

When Sherlock was in bed, his back to John, he tried to force himself to sleep.

"That was a lovely story," John said. "You think I'm amazing?"

"Not particularly now, but generally, yes."

Sherlock knew that John was smiling. "Well, good. I worked hard to look at least semi-impressive compared to you and I'm thankful that my work hasn't gone unnoticed."

"Oh please, John, you're just as impressive and interesting as I am if not more so." Sherlock decided that sleep and buried maternal instincts made him say stupid, revealing things.

There was a pause before a reply. "You think so?"

"Yes. What Mycroft said, about you being ordinary? It's a lie. I know you're just as extraordinary as I am and so did Mary and so will Rosie." 

There was a longer pause now and Sherlock was scared that he had said the wrong thing. "Then good night, Sherlock," John said happily.

"Good night, John," Sherlock replied as he hoped his heart wouldn't beat out of his chest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so not much angst, I figured I'd throw in the heavy stuff later


	5. Chapter 5

It was a week later when John thought it was a good idea for Sherlock to talk to Molly. 

Over that time John was watching Sherlock closely, for a handful of reasons, really. He needed to see that Sherlock wasn't so jittery anymore. He started taking his coat off without being told, started coming to bed with John without being invited first, and he had stopped the long silences plauged by darting, wide eyes and a frightened look. 

John also knew that he was watching Sherlock closely for other, more selfish reasons. Sherlock had melded into a pleasant routine that involved helping John with Rosie, cooking or picking up dinner, and then going to sleep next to John. It was a different kind of domestic compared to what John had seen. He was no longer loud, agitated, and angry. He was polite and kind, catering to anything John or Rosie would ask. And John found that it was a very agreeable Sherlock to know. 

But John was worried. There was that absence of His Sherlock. The man who only gave a kind word to those who had earned his trust, which was usually John or Molly. He hadn't asked for a case, hadn't made deductions. 

So when Sherlock woke up and dressed for seeing Molly, he texted Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.

"What do you think she'll say?" Sherlock asked him as he popped up his coat collar.

"I don't know, you're the consulting detective," John replied as he read the newspaper at the kitchen table.

"Yes, but you're known to be much more experienced when it comes to the realm of emotions," Sherlock countered.

John looked up at him. "That's a load of rubbish, you feel things."

"Yes, but I hate feeling things, therefore I don't think about them," Sherlock answered quickly as he made a point to not look directly at John.

"I think that she's feeling a bit hurt, having been played with like that, especially if someone like Lestrade already explained what happened."

Sherlock nodded, eyeing the door as he considered what he was about to do. "Wish me luck."

"Text me when you need a ride back," John said.

Sherlock turned to him. "A ride?"

John shrugged. "Yeah, well, it seems like a bit of a waste. Having a car and using a cab instead."

"I thought you were going to the clinic." Sherlock had, of course, memorized John's schedule.

John smiled at Sherlock, feeling giddy excitement for getting to witness the beautiful brain of his work to its full potential again. "I am, yeah. But I'll still give you a ride, it's right down the road from Bart's." 

Sherlock gave John a small, almost knowing smile before opening the door and walking out.

After John dropped Rosie off at Mrs. Hudson's flat, he hurried to Bart's. While he was there he looked at how the rebuilding was going, saw how the walls were bare of color and wall paper, and felt oddlt like it was more than the flat being built anew. Like everything was different now, everything was finally back and settled. But he was left to wonder what exactly he felt had settled.

Then on his way to Bart's he had the sudden realisation that he hadn't talked to Sherlock about moving back in. He wanted to, more than anything, but he decided to bring it up to Sherlock later because John doubted he would just assume things like that.

John could tell Sherlock wanted him back by the way he sounded on the baby monitor. Like he was dejected, had given up the fight of keeping his best friend around and in good spirits. Whenever he thought about it, a now familiar pang of guilt would surface in his gut and he would promise to himself that he would never have Sherlock sounding or feeling that way again.

When John had parked the car and started to look for the consulting detective, he couldn't help but think back to when he first walked into Bart's when hebcame back from Afghanistan. His new life was in the air, an open ended sentence in an unfinished story and he just wanted to get to the end and see if any of it would get better.

Then he had met Sherlock Holmes. And he thought he could see an end with him. A damn good one, too.

John opened the first lab door he came to and saw Sherlock stooped over the microscope. His hair was shorter than it was that first meeting, he had a little more color to his skin, and he had definitely gotten to a healthier weight. But when John saw those blue eyes look up at him he grinned because it was the same brilliant ending as before.

"You seem happy today," Sherlock said as he looked back at the microscope.

"It's all just a bit nostalgic. Like we're coming back to the beginning again," John replied.

Sherlock smiled, too. A genuine one that wrinkled his face. "I suppose so."

"Listen, Sherlock, I realize that we haven't talked about me moving back in yet." Sherlock stared into the microscope, unblinking. "So I wanted to know if that would be okay. To bring Rosie and move back into the flat. So we can be more of a, uh... Family unit, I guess."

Sherlock looked back at John, his mouth hanging open for a moment. "You want to come back?"

"Of course. 221B is really the first home I've had in a long, long time. And I couldn't leave you all alone. Besides, we've got cases again, and I heard once that you'd be lost without your blogger."

Sherlock grinned and stood, taking his coat. "I sometimes play the violin when I think and won't speak for days."

John grinned back. "I wouldn't mind it at all."

Sherlock winked and John felt his heart nearly fall to the floor. "Then come on, John. The game is on."

******************************* 

When Sherlock had gone into the morgue, Molly was there carrying a clipboard. She looked up and her face fell and Sherlock felt his heart clench.

"Um, hello, Molly."

Molly looked to the floor. "What, have you come to rub it in? Make some deduction about me?"

Sherlock hung his head. "I've come to say that... I'm sorry. I truly, deeply, sincerely apologize for everything. The deductions, the rudeness, what happened last week, the whole drug thing: every wrong that I have done. I'm sorry for all of it. Everything that has happened...it taught me a few things about feelings and people. That you should never mistreat someone you care about because you never know when they're going to say they've had enough and leave.

"And I'm especially sorry that I can't feel the same way about you. I... I can't, you see, it's not who I am and--"

"I know, Sherlock." Sherlock looked up and saw Molly looking directly at him. "I know that you can't and that you haven't. But, to be completely honest, it's good that I said it. Like I have closure now and can move on. And with closure I think a person can forgive anything."

"So we're friends?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

Molly smiled at him, but only slightly. "Yeah, Sherlock, we're friends."

Sherlock smiled back, some of the weight of his concern lifting and leaving him feeling a little freer. "Good."

"So does this nice thing mean that you'll be nicer to Scotland Yard, or do I still need to hear them rant about you?"

Sherlock huffed, but it turned into more of a short laugh. "No, they're not close to me, they don't count."

"I heard you learned Greg's name."

"Who?"

"Sherlock, I know you've learned it, he said so himself."

"So maybe I did, it doesn't mean I can't pretend that I didn't."

When John started driving to the crime scene that he had planned to visit, Sherlock felt light. He felt that If Molly could forgive him and John could, then maybe not everything could be so bad. Maybe he could find closure himself, too. At least with Redbeard and Eurus.

He also agreed with John that it felt like they were meeting for the first time. Not necessarily as friends, however. Sherlock knew that John was growing accustomed to the domestic housewife that Sherlock had turned into. What he didn't know was if bed sharing and raising a child meant more to John than just a momentary replacement for Mary until he found someone else. Someone that was decidedly female.

But since thinking about it made Sherlock feel heavy again, he kept himself high on being forgiven by everyone he felt was important. Even when his doubts came knocking into his brain, wondering whether he would get it wrong just like Redbeard, he managed to keep his chin up and stroll onto the crime scene like he owned it, his trusting partner beside him and trying to keep up.

"Glad to see you're back," Lestrade said. "Just like old times, right?"

"Better, I think," John answered happily.

"Can't tell what's mashed up and without fingerprints or and ID we have no clue who this woman is," Lestrade explained. "Figured it'd be quicker for you to figure out than to wait for the dozens of people with relatives that look like her to come in."

"Well, you were correct," Sherlock told him, leaning down by the body and looking at the hem of the slim jeans closely.

When John kneels down next to him, he suddenly asks a question. "When you move back in will we be keeping the same arrangement. -- five foot eight, approximately 63.5 kilos."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock was thankful that Donovan was trying to talk Lestrade out of keeping Sherlock on the crime scene so Sherlock didn't feel like he'd be embarrassing either one of them. "The same sleeping arrangement. As right now -- Not from London."

John had become interested in examining the stubs of what used to be fingers. "Well, do you want to?"

"I asked you first," Sherlock argued because he didn't want to say that he did without John saying so first.

John smirked. "Yeah, I think I would. We both sleep better that way."

'I know what you can become,' Mary's voice said and Sherlock decided that he should end the conversation quickly. "I agree. So Rosie can take the other room."

"We can paint it, make it a nice little nursery," John suggested. Sherlock nodded. "The theme could be bees."

Sherlock's heart melted and he didn't know hoe he had gotten someone as perfect as John to be his friend. "I rather like that idea a lot."

"I can tell, you're blushing."

In response, Sherlock jumped to his feet. "I figured it out."

"You know who she is?" Lestrade asked as Sally also kept quiet to hear Sherlock's answer.

"More importantly, I know who killed her and why."

It was after dark when police cars were waiting outside of the killer's residence. It was easy, really, considering that the victim wasn't originally from London and that she was young enough to still be going to University, that fact being perceived by the highlighter that dotted where her thumb met the rest of her hand.

Sherlock was missing it, however. Because he decided that chasing him through town to his home was enough of an adrenaline rush. He couldn't bear to see John hurt because of him, especially with Rosie waiting for them.

So they were taking the long walk back to the car, parked in front of the University of Westminster's Literature building.

"It's a lovely night," John said as he craned his neck upwards to look at the sky. "Really clear."

"Yes, it is," Sherlock agreed.

"It was pretty damn lovely to see you back at work, too," John added. "Not doubting yourself anymore, I hope."

Sherlock shrugged.

"And everything with Molly?"

"Back to normal. Well, better than normal, I hope."

"And now all that's left is to get the flat fixed up and move back in," John said.

"Yes, I suppose."

There was more silence as their footsteps and those of passers by echoed off of walls. Until John broke it, as he felt he always had to. "Sherlock, can you tell me about... Well, since you are gay, I was wondering..."

"Oh God," Sherlock complained reflexively.

"Just hear me out. Have you ever had any boyfriends? In the past?"

"Nope."

"As in you haven't or you don't want to talk about it."

"Don't want to talk about it."

"What were they like? Your boyfriends?"

Sherlock sighed. "If you must know there was only one, officially, and he isn't relevant now therefore it doesn't matter what he was like."

"Alright, alright, fine." John stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Was he like me in any way?

Sherlock froze and turned to look at John in what he hoped was frustration and not shock. "John--"

"Sherlock, please, just tell me." John's face was open, but serious, dead set on getting an answer from Sherlock. He held his breath, watching and hoping that he would see why it even mattered what Sherlock would say.

"Yes."

"Have you ever been interested in me? Like that?"

Sherlock felt like he couldn't breath. "Why?"

John looked at his shoes. Sherlock realized they were his date shoes.


	6. Chapter 6

The question came to John's mind after the chase to the house. Sherlock had just stopped mid-sprint and John nearly bumped into him. When he stopped and looked up, Sherlock looked more like a picturesque angel statue than a man who had just run a few miles.

Sherlock's hair was windblown, ruffled in a delicate way with a few stray curls falling onto his porcelain skinned face. John wondered if it felt as smooth as it usually looked, which he realized was definitely not how best mates think about eachother. The angle of the light cast marvelous rays of shocking blue into his eyes, they glowed like lanterns as he posed perfectly to have his wondrous neck elongated as his profile shouted against dark stone walls. 

John's breath caught and he couldn't do anythinf but stare. Then the questions came. Did Janine lie about all of that in the papers? Did Sherlock want a boyfriend? Had he ever had one? Did he ever want John to be his boyfriend? 

That was when Sherlock looked back at him and John had to tell himself to stop staring. He barely registered what Sherlock was saying to him.

So when Sherlock stared at him, his eyes searching for something in John's expression, his sharp cheeks softening with a faint blush, John found that he barely had the voice to continue. "Because it's fine, you know."

Sherlock looked down at his shoes then quickly back at John. "You're not gay," Sherlock said. 

John huffed a laugh. "Is that a question or a statement?"

A hard edge returned to Sherlock. "You have said repeatedly that you weren't gay, weren't interested in men, and not interested in me. With all of that, it would be hard for a person to develop feelings for the other," was the concise reply that was betrayed by a slight tremor. 

"I haven't said that in years," John argued. He hadn't mostly because Sherlock had been pretending to be dead and people were polite enough not to say anything while John was grieving. Then he was married and no one had made the mistake again. But while Sherlock was away, doing God knows what, he would let himself think about it. He imagined what a relationship with Sherlock would have been like and decided it wouldn't be much different to being flat mates.

But now that John thought about it, it would change a lot of things. Mostly because John felt like it would fix something, whatever had been broken in Sherlock, to reassure him that he wasn't the only one who cared. 

"That doesn't matter," Sherlock replied calmly, almost monotone. "You still said it." 

"What if I changed my mind?"

Sherlock looked panicked. His edge was still there, barely. His eyes were wide and unblinking, he barely moved. It was much like the time that he asked Sherlock to be his best man. He just stood and stared.

"No," Sherlock said quickly, loudly, and quite suddenly. He said it with such ferocity that John almost jumped. "I can't."

"You can't what?" John asked, a bit confused.

"I refuse to be any kind of sexual experiment that you would wish to partake in while you're searching for someone to replace Mary as a mother and caregiver because I'm not a replacement and not just an experiment," Sherlock rushed out in an angry, almost hysteric tone.

"Sherlock, that's not--"

"I know you're hurting and that you need someone but I'm not that person because you've made it clear multiple times that you would never have feelings for me and that I would not be the most desirable partner so please, John, just leave it."

"Sherlock--"

"Leave it!" Sherlock stomped away, hands in his coat as he walked. John followed behind him, wondering what in the hell he had said wrong. Then he figured that he had said and done many things wrong over the eyears and regretted every harsh word he had thrown at the detective. Because in hindsight, Sherlock didn't deserve any of it. 

Sherlock climbed into the passenger seat of the car, still not saying anything or even looking at John. Then as John drove them to get Rosie, Sherlock only came in, grabbed her diaper bag, and left.

"What's that all about?" Mrs. Hudson asked John.

"I might've poked at him a bit too much," John answered, which he figured was true. He had poked at feelings that weren't meant to be processed yet and Sherlock was short circuiting.

"He's awful sensitive these days," Mrs. Hudson mused. "All of this business with his sister and Mary, bless her soul, it's all too much for him."

"Mrs. H, do you think he has feelings for me? Romantic ones?"

Mrs. Hudson laughed at him, short giggles like someone had said the funniest joke she's heard all week. They even started to bordsr cackles by the time she calmes down and took a breath. "Oh, sorry, love, I just thought you knew! Of course he does, has for years, broke his heart to see you married."

John stared at her for a moment. "He's told you this?"

"He said so much with his actions. He did get caught in a drug den after your marriage, I thought anyone would be able to connect the dots." 

"Mrs. Hudson, have I ever told you how brilliant you could be?"

"No, which would be lovely to hear more often," Mrs. Hudson said accusingly with a light smack to his arm. "Go after him, he finds the little one soothing." So John buckled Rosie into the car seat and Sherlock helped wordlesslly. 

Once they got back to the house, Rosie cried and Sherlock changed her nappy and afterwards handed her to John without meeting his eyes. "She's tired, you should get her to bed."

"Are you coming up?" John asked hopefully. Sherlock shook his head. "Right then. Good night."

John settled into bed sleeplessly, turning the problem of Sherlock over in his head. It was an hour later when Rosie's cries shrieked through the baby monitor and John was thankful for something to do. But before he could even sit up, Sherlock's bounding steps were up the stairs and in the nursery. 

John flopped back into the mattress, sighing loudly.

"Oh, love, awake again? This business of not sleeping isn't very fun, is it?" Sherlock asked her gently. John couldn't help smiling. 

"So, little bee, what to discuss today?" Sherlock asked her. "I think I'd like to explain another thing to you and your daddy. It's very important to me and I think I made a fool of myself earlier."

John sat up, looking at the baby monitor and listening intently. "You see, I did something very foolish once. It was years ago, before your mummy and daddy met. Your father... You see, he cares about me. We sere best friends then, the closest any two people could get. He had been my first true, best friend since Redbeard -- or, Victor Trevor, I guess I should start calling him. No with Victor, because of the things I did and people I knew he... He got hurt very badly." John heard Sherlock's voice tremor slightly. 

"But then I was threatened by Moriarity. Either I fed into his plan, fakes my death, finished his story, or my best friends would get hurt again. They were going to die again. I hadn't remembered that day, you see, I didn't know that it was this fear of losing people that made me jump. And I couldn't come back and reveal that I was still alive until I had taken down every person who was known to work for Moriarity. Two years of that and it was safe to come back. But it happened again. My best friend had hated me, found someone else, and then she died and... I can't be what you want, John, I've let you down so many times and I'm not the Sherlock Holmes I was before the fall."

There was a moment of silence and John took that opportunity to get out of bed and go to the nursery.

Sherlock was sitting in the chair, a silent Rosie looking up to see John the same moment that Sherlock did. John thought of them as his beautiful family.

"Sherlock, I didn't mean to scare you. I know now that you have many, many feelings to sort out right now and that I shouldn't have messed with it, but you were right. I was suggesting us being together."

Sherlock swallowed. "Why?"

John smiled at him. "Because of exactly what you just said. You care so deeply and completely for people and if you would just show your heart it would be one of the most beautiful things about you."

Sherlock stood, putting Rosie into her crib gently before going around John and out the door. John followed him down the stairs and into the kitchen.

"What? What did I say?"

"Nothing."

Sherlock got out the tea kettle and started filling it with water. "I know you care, how come you won't let yourself be happy?"

"You just answered your own question. I care deeply and completely, it has proven to be a fatal flaw more often than not." Clinical Sherlock had made a return and John felt like he was losing Sherlock to what he had been before, when they had first met. 

"Sherlock, please listen to me." Sherlock slammed the kettle onto the stove. "Do you know why I was so upset that you had gone? Do you know why it took me two whole years to move on?" 

"Sentiment," Sherlock replied.

"Because I loved you, dammit, and I couldn't let myself be happy before I lost you and then you just showed up again out of the blue like everything was supposes to go back to normal, like I was some play thing." 

Sherlock got down two mugs and put a tea bag in each. "Well, you had Mary, you were happy." 

"That's not the point!"

"Then what is the point, John?" Sherlock turned and looked at him accusingly. "What exactly is the point of this whole conversation if not to state the obvious?"

"The point is that I cared as much as you did, I'm not going to turn around and leave you alone for someone else."

"My point is that I'm not the man you loved before I died so why would you care!" As Sherlock shouted, he had turned back around with waving arms and accidentally knocked one of the mugs over, causing it to roll off the counter and break."

Rosie started crying and Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. "I'm sorry, it was an accident," he said before kneeling down and gently picking up the larger pieces.

John took a deep breath, rubbing his face in frustration. "Okay, how about I go put her down and then we'll sit on the couch and talk this over calmly, okay? I'm sorry that I sounded so harsh."

Sherlock nodded. "It's fine, John." 

John reluctantly went upstairs. After her cries were identified as hungry, John carried her down stairs to use the microwave and get to the formula. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, one steaming mug of tea set off to the side on the coffee table. "I'll only be a moment," John reassured him.

"Take your time," Sherlock replied in a monotone voice. So John went back upstairs and after burping and rocking, Rosie fell back asleep.

Sherlock hadn't moved, his hands clasped tightly in his lap as he looked down. John sat next to him, about to say something to get the conversation going when Sherlock said. "I made you tea." 

"Oh, thank you, Sherlock." John took a sip, the cuppa made exactly the way he liked it. "Okay, now you have to answer me honestly, okay? Do you want me?" 

Sherlock's head bowed and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Yes."

"Okay. Then how come you won't let yourself be with me?"

Sherlock's eyes popped open as he took a breath through his mouth. "I can't... I just... I don't..."

"You're scared?" John guessed. Sherlock nodded. "Sherlock, I'm not going to leave you or replace you or anything like that ever again. I only did those things because I was angry and I didn't think you would ever feel the same way." 

"I can't help being scared, John, it's what I do. I'm scared that people will leave so I don't get attached because I functioned fine without people then you walked in and I got attached and then it's never been the same, I'll never be the same, so it's not worth it to disappoint you." 

John gently put his hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades, rubbing gently over the T-shirt he was wearing. "You could never disappoint me." 

"I did before. Loads of times. I've changed after Bart's, I've changed after all of this." 

"Sherlock, I know what happened while you were away. I've seen glimpses of them, while you were in hospital. I know that you have nightmares about it when you do sleep. I don't care if that changed you, that would change anyone, but I am so grateful that you're back here safe." 

"What if I ever start using again?" Sherlock whispered, his back tensing. 

John pressed his lips together for a moment before answering. "Then I will help you stop using."

"You'll be angry. You always get angry." 

"Maybe I want to change, too, Sherlock. I promise, never again will I be angry with you when all you need is my help. Okay?" 

Sherlock swallowed and closed his eyes again. "Okay." John slipped his free hand to Sherlock's fidgeting ones, taking the right one and pushing his fingers between Sherlock's before squeezing their palms together and laying them on Sherlock's leg. Sherlock took a shaking breath, squeezing John's hand quickly. 

"I want to...whatever it is you want with me, a relationship. I--I do." 

John smiled. "You don't have to if you're not ready." Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at John. He leaned forward, gently brushing his lips over one stubbled cheek before pulling away again. John grinned, but Sherlock turned away before he could see. 

John took his hand off of Sherlock's back, gently turning his face towards him. He leaned in slowly, giving Sherlock enough time to pull away if he wanted. Instead, he closed his eyes and waited. John pressed his lips to Sherlock's, keeping the kiss simple and relatively long before pulling away.

Sherlock's bright eyes blinked at him, his face a sort of shocked happiness. John smiled at him, putting his hand over his cheek.

"Was that okay?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded, then looked down slightly. "Is it okay if we just do that? For now?"

"We can do whatever you want, Sherlock," John promised. Sherlock nodded, leaning his face into John's hand. "Want to head upstairs? Just to sleep?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Can we just sit? Watch telly or something? You still have your tea."

"Sure, love," John said. He picked up the remote, searching for a late night channel. "Here, want to lie down?"

Sherlock gave him a questioning look. John sat facing the telly, pulling Sherlock so that he was on his side with his head in his lap. John laced curls between his fingers, brushing through them. "Good?"

Sherlock curled up on the couch, bringing his hands under his chin. "Very good," he said and John could see a small smile on his face. When John landed on a channel, Sherlock took his hand and held it loosely. John kissed the top of his hand, continuing to massage his curls and neither one of them had felt so happy and at peace in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story with our boys isn't over yet, but they're in this together.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor's wake :(

John looked dashing in a suit. He did before, on his wedding, but with longer hair it made Sherlock's stomach do flips. But that particular morning he wasn't feeling up to saying anything in particular about it.

Sherlock tried three times to do his tie, but each attempt ended in failure and right before Sherlock was to rip it off and tear his hair out, John came behind him and turned him away from the mirror. 

"Here, love, I got it," John said gently. So Sherlock dropped his hands by his sides and focused on watching John's hands tie the black garment underneath his collar.

When John finished, he slid his hands down the lapels of Sherlock's dress coat and pulled the button closed. "There. Brilliant and dapper as always." John looked up at him with a small smile, a hesitant one, and Sherlock tried to smile back but he must've grimaced instead because John cupped his face in one scratchy palm and rubbed his thumb in small circles over his temple. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Bad." 

"That's normal, for a wake and all." John thought for a moment and Sherlock was happy for the brief silence. "Are you scared of seeing his parents?"

"Only his father is alive. His mother died of a heart attack," Sherlock said. He squeezed his eyes shut harder, trying to keep himself from crying. "She died without knowing what happened." 

"Hey, hey, it's okay," John cooed as he brought his other hand up to hold Sherlock's face. "Listen, everything will go okay. He will get a lovely burial, everyone will pay their respects, and he'll be put to rest properly. In this situation, I'm afraid that's the best ending you can ask for." 

Sherlock opened his eyes, John's face blurring. "Then why do I still feel awful?" 

"Oh, sweetheart..." John hugged Sherlock, squeezing gently and rubbing his back whilenone hand had to hold onto his neck so that Sherlock could bury his face into John's shoulder. "You feel awful because you're burying your childhood best friend today. That's just how feelings work."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist. "I don't like them." 

"Well, you sort of need them," John argued. 

After Victor disappeared, his parents had moved to London to get away from the grief. His mother was buried in the city and Victor was to be buried right next to her. Sherlock expected that his father had plans to join them someday. 

Sherlock was told about the wake a week before. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, his parents, and Rosie had also been welcome to join. Mycroft didn't want to make an appearance, something about funerals being a social normality that served a purpose to only put to rest the wild feelings of the general public. Sherlock used to think the same thing. He was also invited to the burial, but he had seen Victor in a darkened hold in the ground before and didn't want to again. 

The car ride to the funeral home was silent. Rosie talked in the back seat, put in a small black dress with a matching headband adorned with flowers and a small section of net that was supposed to look akin to a mourning veil. Mrs. Hudson had picked it out while John stayed home with Sherlock as he cried. John had one hand on the wheel, the other clapping Sherlock's cold fingers in his. 

It had been three weeks, two days, and thirteen hours since that night on the couch and John had kept to his promises. He hadn't yelled, hadn't lost his temper, hadn't even asked for anything relationship wise, either. Sherlock imagined all that would change once they moved back into Baker Street and he was comfortable enough to start leaving severed toes in the fridge. But until then, Sherlock felt safe in John's arms, grounded when he held his hand, and overjoyed whenever he kissed him and that's all he cared about. 

Mrs. Hudson and Molly were already waiting outside, also dressed in black, Mrs. Hudson wearing a large flopping hat. Sherlock got Rosie out and held her while John circled around the car to guide Sherlock with a hand to his back. 

"Oh, poor dear, you look dreadful," Mrs. Hudson said with a pat to Sherlock's cheek. 

"Thanks, Mrs. H," John said with a hint of sarcasm.

"Do you want me to take her?" Molly asked, looking to Rosie.

Sherlock shook his head. With the combination of the two Watson's, Sherlock knew that he could at least attempt to make it through the ceremony. If he didn't have the infant squirming in his arms, he wouldn't know what else to do with them.

"Come on, let's go inside, yeah?" John suggested. Sherlock nodded, being guided towards the large doors where a man the age of his parents stood. A young woman was holding onto his one arm while he shook hands with the other. The girl was his daughter, red hair matching Victor's. Sherlock swallowed, freezing to the spot because they should've gotten to see him, see their son's ginger hair one last time, see his freckles, but instead they only had a partial skeleton and pictures and it wasn't fair.

"Do you not want to see him?" John asked.

"I do," Sherlock admitted. He just wanted to see Victor, see that he was okay, but he wasn't because he was dead and obviously so. 

The man looked up at Sherlock with bright eyes, trying to match Sherlock's face to a person before it finally clicked. "Little William, is it?" he asked.

"I go by Sherlock now, but yes," Sherlock replied. 

"My boy, I haven't seen you in years," he said as he took Sherlock's hand and patted him on the shoulder, smiling. "Who are these two?" 

"I'm John, this is Rosie. We're his, um... His family." 

The man just smiled back at Sherlock. "I'm glad to see that you found yourself a family, William."

Sherlock nodded because he knew that it would've been nice to see Victor grown up with a family, too. 

"Now listen, I need you to know that today I am not angry with you, alright? You were just a lad, you did nothing wrong, and I know that you wanted to find him just as badly as his mother and I did." He was still holding his hand and put his other one on top of it. "Sherlock, it wasn't your problem, lad, so don't be upset with yourself. Alright?" 

"Yes," Sherlock answered with a shaking breath and a nod. 

"Good. Find a seat and we'll get started." 

Sherlock sat in the back. He didn't know if it was because he didn't have the energy to walk anymore or if it was because he didn't want anyone to see him cry, but he sat and John sat next to him. John put a reassuring hand on his thigh and Sherlock wishec that he could smile at him. 

"He's right, you know. If you feel guilty about it or if you still feel guilty about trying to forget him, don't."

"I know," Sherlock muttered. "I just...miss him. Miss the person he could've been." 

"Yeah, looking at such a small coffin doesn't help," John replied. Sherlock looked to the front of the room. It was a closed casket, the bones of his childhood best friend tucked inside. It was small, child sized, and a shiny black. Flowers were propped around it with one large picture of the smiling little boy displayed next to it.

That's when it all came rushing at him. Days when they would run around the beach and play pirate, the day they met in school, when Sherlock would sneak Victor answers to tests and Victor would tell him about the solar system because he wanted to go to space someday, was willing to move to America to do it, and the boys had made a promise as all children do to follow eachother because they were best mates and the time they spent together was when they were most happy. Victor going to university with him, studying with him, becoming an engineer or something and moving to America, Sherlock still talikg with his parents like they were his own, knowing his children and being Uncle Sherlock or Uncle William. Victor deserved a life like that, a life of space and friendship and family, one that Sherlock could watch.

That's when he started crying, at first small tears that escaped then growing into sobs that shook his shoulders and drew the attention of those who sat near them. John just held his leg, then rubbed his shoulders, then when people got up and started talking Sherlock was able to quiet himself and listen while tears were still streaming. 

But by the tims the eulogies were over, Sherlock had recovered from his outburst. John held his hand, pulling him up with him. 

"John?" Sherlock's voice cracked.

"Yes, love?" 

"Can we...can we go up to the casket?" John nodded, reaching for Rosie and holding her. 

Sherlock didn't know what he wanted with the black box. He placed his hand on it, just to know that it was real, that his friend was real. The bright boy he knew had truly existed, it wasn't just his memory messing with him again. He couldn't think of anything in particular to say, either. His father had been right, there was nothing for him to feel bad for, he couldn't necessarily apologize. He was sorry that Victor was gone, but he knew that he just missed him and for some reason saying "I'm sorry" was the most effwctive way of saying that.

"Hey, Sherlock, your parents want to know of Rosie should spend the night?" Sherlock turned to see his mother and father, his mother frowning at him before coming up to hug him tightly.

"Oh, my poor boy, today has been awful for you," she whispered. "We can take her to see her grandparents, spoil her a bit, how does that sound?"

"Grandparents?" Sherlock askes because his brain was slow. 

"Us, love," she said.

"You need time to recooperate," his dad cut in. "You geniuses tend to be wiped after tragedies."

Sherlock nodded and his mother let go and he wasn't really listening to what they were saying or what John was saying. Then Rosie was handed off, Sherlock feeling a slight suspicion that the impromptu visit had actually been planned, then John took his hand and lead him out.

The air was fresher outside, his lungs not so crushed. He took a deep breath and blew it out and John moved his arm around his waist.

"You alright?" he asked.

"I suppose," Sherlock replied. 

"Here," John said as he came and undid the tie and top button on Sherlock's suit. "I know you don't like ties because you say they suffocate you. It might help."

Sherlock had no idea how he got such an understandingly wise man to be his partner (Boyfriend? Lover? Which would John like?) but he did feel better without the tie and he smiled a little. "It does. Thank you." 

John smiled and Sherlock kissed him because he realized that John meant everything and that he could lose him any day now and he deserves to be kissed as often as possible. 

John pulled away and Sherlock frowned. "Come on, let's get home, yeah?"

"Home is still being reconstructed," Sherlock argued.

"Temporary home," John amended. 

When they did get home, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and didn't let go. "Sweetheart, I'm not going anywhere," he said. "But I would like to change out of this suit."

"I like you in a suit," Sherlock said into his shoulderblade. 

"Yes, but if you're in for a cuddle I would rather have something more comfortable on." Sherlock had to agree because he would much rather have his pajamas on and maybe even a dressing gown.

"You promise a cuddle?" Sherlock felt stupid having to ask, but he had to. He couldn't stop.

"Yes, of course."

Sherlock didn't truly feel like he could breath until he was snuggled underneath a comforter with John holding him to his chest. 

"Do you feel better? After today?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded. "A bit."

"That's good. It's still going to be a long time before you won't feel completely bad, but it's a start." 

"You thought I was dead," Sherlock blurted. 

John shifted a little. "Yeah, yeah I did. And I grieved you for a long time, too."

Sherlock frowned. "I'm sorry I made you feel like this."

"I know you are, darling," because John was past forgiving Sherlock, he had forgiven him a long time ago. 

"And I'm sorry you felt like this with Mary," Sherlock added. 

"I know, love, but that part wasn't your fault." 

"What happens if someone else dies?" Sherlock asked. "What if it's Molly or Lestrade? Or it's my brother and he still thinks that all I do is hate him or Eurus and she's still alone in there and crying for someone to just notice her."

"Sherlock, you don't have to worry about that. You can't. You'd be taken over with what ifs and then what else will there be?" 

"John?" 

"Yes?"

"I love you."

Sherlock knew John was grinning, he had to be because it was the first time that Sherlock had said it aloud. "I love you, too." 

"And I think that you're really handsome, and for some reason you being small makes you adorable too because looking at you I can't find one word that combines those two because you're so uniquely, extraordinarily you," Sherlock rambled.

"Small?" John asked, sounding offended.

"And I want us to be a real couple, an official one that people talk about all of the time and that papers know and you won't get upset."

"Of course, love, we're already a real couple."

"Like a real one, I don't care if I get hurt anymore, I just want to be with you in every way that two people who are in a romantic relationship should be together becauss if not I'm going to regret everything I didn't do just like I am now."

"Okay, okay," John hushed as he pulled his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "We will do whatever you want, anything you want. Just know that I will do anything for you because I love you, okay, and I would never leave."

"Even when we're old and retired and there aren't cases anymore? Even when I start keeping body parts in the kitchen?" 

"Yes, even then."

And that was the first time that Sherlock let himself believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter is coming up next, time to solve their final problem


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Baker Street boys. Basically just kinda fluffy to connect dots to the end of the Final Problem.

John woke up because Sherlock's hair was tickling his nose. He resisted a sneeze, instead opening his eyes and leaning up on one elbow to look down at his beautiful consulting detective.

His face had more color in it, but the rest of him was still pale enough to almost blend into the sheets as the white rays of sunshine danced across his sleeping form. John felt like he could write poetry about his beauty, compose songs about it, like he was ethereal enough to be the muse of a painting. Sherlock was shirtless, which meant that the now faint marks on his shoulders and his back were noticeable. He had been shy about them, the first time, but John was happy he felt free enough not to cover up.

Sherlock stirred again, opening one eye to look at John, a splash of colour on the black and white canvas. Then he smiled and John smiled back. "You always wake up so early," Sherlock mumbled as he tucked his hands under the pillow and snugfled into it.

"You always get up so late," John pointed out. Sherlock smiled and turned onto his back, untangling messy curls with his fingers and making them poof more. 

"Your hair looks messy," Sherlock mumbled as he reached up and started playing with John's still greying hair.

"That's partially your fault, since you seemed to like it so much last night," John said as he swatted Sherlock's hand away. 

"I like running my hands through it," Sherlock replied. "And you weren't complaining."

John settled next to Sherlock again, resting his head on his chest and listening to his heart beat. "Maybe it was because I was too happy to be back after a long day of final touches." 

221B was recreated, smiley face and all, and reconstruction had completed. Rosie had been in 221C, John's old room changed to a nursery. Sherlock had been the one to suggest christening the new flat after dinner and a few minutes of sitting in front of the fire.

"Maybe," Sherlock conceded, but he was smiling so John knew that he wasn't taking the statement seriously. 

"What do you say to some breakfast?" John asked.

"Coffee?"

"Yes, of course." Sherlock nodded. "And you are eating it, you're getting a bit thin again."

"You called me beautiful, though," Sherlock argued. John found that after creating a much more intimate relationship, Sherlock loved bringing up poetic things that John tells him. Everything he says is true, down to the last adjective, but he felt like it was because Sherlock wasn't used to someone calling him beautiful or radiant or anything like that. John didn't mind the repition.

"And I will do it again," he replied before placing a delicate kiss to Sherlock's chest. His eyes, as they tended to always do, suddenly and unpredictably landed on the bullet hole. John traced his index finger over it, thinking.

"I can put a shirt on," Sherlock offered shyly. He was still unsure of this particular mark, the scar newer, the memories behind it battling with the Fall for most traumatizing adventures of recent history. John could tell and he had to agree, but he found that he was drawn to it the same way he was drawn to Sherlock himself.

"You think she knew this was going to happen?" John asked.

Sherlock swallowed and John could hear it. "I don't know," Sherlock replied. John remembered her words, "I know what you could be," and decided that she had probably planned it like the bloody DVDs. 

"Do you really have to go see her tomorrow?"

"I have to, John. Forgiving is something that people need sometimes."

"I hate when you're wise from experience like this," John grumbled.

"You just hate me going back to her."

Sherlock had brought up the issue of going to see Eurus after the wake. John didn't want to hear of it, didn't want to speak of it, was revolted by the idea of his precious Sherlock going back there alone. He even called Mycroft to make sure that he wouldn't sneak there on his own. But Sherlock eventually made him listen and John eventually, stubbornly agreed that maybe it could do them both some good. But he still hated the idea. 

"I promise, I'll text when I arrive, text half an hour in, then text when I leave with the special code word "red pants" so that you know that it's me." 

"Alright, but if you're late at all I will call Mycroft, understood?"

"Completely."

The baby monitor came alive with wakeful baby talking and Sherlock smiled. "Looks like little bee is awake. Go get her while I cook?"

"I'll put pants on first." 

"Good idea."

John was at the stove, avoiding eggs and milk that was on the body parts side of the fridge as took them out and scrambled them in a bowl. Rosie and Sherlock appeared, what he mentally called his curly haired loves, and grinned at the two of them because they were in an intense conversation.

"Yes, you're right, I do like the bunnies on your pajamas, your father occasionally has good taste," Sherlock explained.

"Oi, I chose you lot," John argued.

"Which is one of your good choices," Sherlock said matter of factly with a nod and Rosie tried to mimmick him by throwing her head forward, but instead just gave Sherlock a fright. "Okay, darling, I don't think you make very great choices sometimes, either." 

"She's a baby, how bad could they be?" John asked as he turned his attention to the stove.

"I almost dropped her, John." 

Sherlock approached the coffee pot after putting Rosie in her chair. John looked at him as he reached for a mug and smiled. "So, Sherlock, I've been meaning to ask you something." 

Sherlock paused, mug still mid air, looking panicked before he could school his expression. "Yes?"

"Rosie needs to call you something other than Sherlock," John said. "Because, well, you're raising hee now and you're practically her second dad. I was wondering what you would have in mind? I'm afraid I have already been assigned one so it would probably be helpful to pick another, but--"

"You want your daughter to call me some variation of dad?" Sherlock asked in a shocked tone.

"Well, yeah. I expect to be with you for a long time, we live together. It makes sense. And your parents have already taken on the role of grandparents. They'll have Uncle Mike and Aunt E."

"A...a dad?"

"You love her, Sherlock. I don't see it being so hard to believe." 

Hands cupped John's face and tore it away from cooking, kissing his face and decidedly causing the burning of the eggs.

When John gathered enough senses to turn off the flame, he pulled out of Sherlock's grasp long enough to stop his loving rampage. "Sweetheart, what was that about?" 

Sherlock grinned, eyes bright and shining and happy, ecstatic even, for the first time in a long, long while and Sherlock felt like that look was the answer to every problem the universe could throw at them. "I get to have a family with you," Sherlock said. "And you mean it."

John smiled. "Yeah, I do. So what's the verdict then?"

"Dada," Sherlock answered in all seriousness. "Or Da for short because I know that's the way you like to say it sometimes." 

"I do," John agreed. "Sounds perfect."

Everything felt so different to John. It was bright and open and positive and happy and he had no clue that he could be ever felt so complete. Of course, he would still be the soldier that never left the war, Sherlock would still be the drug addict, but now that they had made it they were just Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

And John fantasized that someday maybe they could be Watson-Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! Thanks for reading my first fic and I hope to write more

**Author's Note:**

> This is my my first fic so comments are appreciated. Additional chapters will be added


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